“I’ll look forward to exploring them,” Stone said.
“Exploration is fun, isn’t it?”
“It certainly can be.”
“Have you ever experienced the night sky in Santa Fe from a hot tub?” she asked.
“I have, but only once.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“It was a wonderful experience.”
“Did you bring a swimsuit with you?” she asked.
“No.”
“Oh, good.”
5
STONE STARED UP at the wildly starred sky, the view made all the better because he was looking over Ana’s shoulder as she faced him. The lights of Tesuque were just below and those of Santa Fe farther to the south. A sliver of moon did not challenge the Milky Way in its splendor, and the burble of the hot tub’s jets added a sound track.
“Everything all right?” Ana whispered in his ear.
“I was just thinking I don’t know how things could be better.”
“Have you boiled long enough?” she asked.
“I believe I’m about medium done.”
“Well, the one thing this spa doesn’t have is a built-in bar, so why don’t we go inside and see if we can locate a bottle of cognac?”
“A worthy notion, even if I have to move.”
“I could bring you a snifter here,” she said.
“You’d probably find me floating facedown when you returned, so why don’t we select the first option?”
She disconnected herself from him, and he stood up, watching her shining body as she walked up the spa’s steps to where they had left towels and robes. She handed him both as he emerged, and he toweled his hair, then got into the thick terry robe and his slippers and followed her into the master bedroom, where they had left their clothes.
“You stretch out and relax, and I’ll get the brandy.”
“What a good idea,” he said, lying on the bed and using the remote control to raise his head a bit.
A jazz trio floated from the sound system and relaxed him even further. Ana returned a moment later with a bottle and two snifters and poured them both one before she got into bed beside him and adjusted the height to match his.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“I believe I’ve somehow achieved an almost liquid state.”
“The brandy should do the rest, then.”
He took a sip. “I think you’re right. Isn’t this about the point where you should sell me a house?”
She laughed.
“I’d be helpless to refuse you anything.”
“Well, I do have a couple of suitable things in mind. The problem is, neither of them could match the house you’ve just sold the Presidents Lee.”
“I try never to go backward,” he replied.
“You live in New York?”
“I am a resident of that state and city, and I have the tax returns to prove it.”
“Do you have a place anywhere else, where you can get away?”
“I have a place in Dark Harbor, Maine,” he said.
“Is that all?”
“Well, there’s a house in Paris and a small estate in the South of England.”
“Anything else?” she snorted.
“Oh, and a place in Los Angeles.”
“Where?”
“In L.A. at the Arrington, up Stone Canyon.”
“You keep a room there?”
“Not exactly.”
“Please explain to me how you come to have a house at the Arrington. I didn’t know anybody did.”
“Arrington Carter Calder, for whom the hotels are named, was my wife. My late wife.”
“She was Vance Calder’s widow, was she not?”
“Yes. She inherited a large parcel of land that he had accumulated over several decades, and where he had built his home. I inherited it from her, and with some friends as investors, we built the hotel, incorporating Vance’s house as the reception area and main restaurant. When I sold the land to the group, I retained the right to build a house on the property, to be built at their expense and to my specifications. I use it, perhaps, half a dozen times a year, when I have business in L.A. Or pleasure.”
“Why so many houses?”
“That’s an odd question, coming from a Realtor.”
“I suppose it is, but I’m curious.”
“They just kept popping up, and they were each irresistible. I did sell a house last year, in Washington, Connecticut, and, of course, the place in Tesuque, so I’m not completely crazy.”
“Ted Turner has—or maybe, had—ten houses,” she said.
“I feel his pain.”
“One of his places is said to have something like two hundred thousand acres of grassland.”
“That’s a lot of lawn to mow,” Stone said. “Only two of my houses have lawns, and one of those is quite small, so I don’t have to spend much time on a tractor.”
“Who is this Billy Barnett fellow that you and Ed Eagle seem so fond of? I couldn’t get a handle on him.”
“Billy is a film producer who works with my son, Peter, at Centurion Studios. Billy recently lost his wife in an accident, and Ed and I are commiserating.”
“Hang on, you have a son? With whom?”
“Arrington.”
“I thought . . .”
“We knew each other before she met Vance Calder. Neither of us knew she was pregnant when they were married, nor did Vance, for that matter.”
“You must be a very complicated man.”
“No, I’m a simple man with a complicated life. I spend my days wrestling it into submission.”
“I don’t suppose Billy is house-hunting?”
Stone sighed. “Not in his present frame of mind.”
“What’s he doing in Santa Fe?”
“I can’t talk about that.”
“I understand.”
“Ana, do you know anything about a man named Dax Baxter?”
“Ach!” she spat. “I hope he’s not a friend of yours.”
“I’ve never met the man, but it sounds as though you have.”
“I spent half a day with him a few weeks ago, showing him grandiose houses, but I couldn’t find one bad enough for him. Instead, I excused myself from duty and gave him the names of a couple of other real estate ladies whom I despise. He bought a house that I look upon as the ugliest and most overbearing in Santa Fe County.”
“That sounds like a pretty good description of the Baxter I’ve heard about,” Stone said. “Ugly and overbearing.”
“And arrogant. I think the villains in his movies are all autobiographical.”
“How many have you seen?”
“About a third of one—that was enough. I’ve had enough of Dax Baxter, too. What made you bring up his name?”
“Someone I know hates him,” Stone said. “Now I think I know why.”
6
TEDDY SAT AT the dressing table in the bedroom of the little house he had rented, regarded himself in the mirror, and made some decisions about who he should become. He had always had a distinctly anonymous look about him, a face that lent itself to change, one that people had trouble remembering.
He had to keep it simple, since he would spend considerable time in this character, and he began with a thick, gray mustache with little handlebars. That one thing would establish him in the minds of others as Ted Shirley, the name he had chosen for himself, one easy to remember. He had already spent a couple of hours online, creating a structure for this identity—New York driver’s license, Social Security number, union memberships, credit report, everything an employer would need to hire him.
He stared at the face in the mirror: it was already tan from his years in California, so no makeup was required. It needed one other distinguishing feature, though, one more thing. He fished around in his makeup box and found a pair of round, steel-rimmed eyeglasses; he wiped the lenses clean and put them on, securing them over his ears with the flexible stems. There: sort of a more youthful Wilford Brimley type.
He opened his Ted Shirley file and ran through his particulars again. He had to be this character completely, and he couldn’t allow himself to stumble over facts, like the year he was born or the last four digits of his Social.